


There's No Need To Feel Down

by TheAndromedaRecord



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Dramatic Irony, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Human/Monster Romance, Identity Porn, Injury Recovery, M/M, Secret Identity, cryptid hunter martin, fluffy jon, jon is mothman, mothman jon, peter lukas is bigfoot, yes you read that correctly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAndromedaRecord/pseuds/TheAndromedaRecord
Summary: Martin's been working for the Magnus Institute in Point Pleasant, West Virginia for years, and he's always believed in cryptids. However, it's one thing to believe in Mothman, and a totally different matter to fall in love with him.---An AU where Jon is the Mothman. And also still Martin's boss.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 699
Kudos: 1134





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey this started as crack but.....here we are

Martin was not expecting to find Mothman.

Okay, yes, he had run to find where the thing had fallen, and yes, the thing that had fallen from the sky when the gunshot rang out fit every description of Mothman ever. But he was honestly thinking it was just an eagle or something. Yes, Martin worked for an Institute that investigated cryptids, but it was one thing to believe in the existence of Mothman, and a totally different thing to find Mothman sprawled out bleeding in a forest clearing.

Martin stood and stared for a moment at the scene before him. There was no way the thing in the clearing wasn’t Mothman. It was trying to push itself off the ground with four arms, it had moth wings complete with eyespots, it had long antenna. And it was bleeding from the shoulder. Blood that looked black in the moonlight was spattered over the Mothman’s soft-looking...skin? Fur? Fluff? Whatever it was, it was light grey and brown and looked quite soft.

It was the Mothman. Martin realized his mouth was hanging open.

He shook himself out of his trance and stepped carefully into the clearing. The Mothman looked hurt. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He just had to fly around a bunch of trigger-happy locals.

“Hey,” Martin said softly. Mothman could understand him, right?

Mothman’s head snapped towards him, his eyes red and narrowed. He hissed, and his teeth were bright and sharp. Martin took a step back.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I promise.”

Mothman tried to stand, but swayed and collapsed back into the leaf litter. Martin noticed that he had a little ruff of dark brown fur. 

“Can I help you?” Martin asked. “Please?”

Mothman gave him a quizzical look, making a little _chht chht chht_ noise. Martin couldn’t tell if the noise was coming from the wings or the teeth. Mothman collapsed on his back, still staring at Martin. Martin took a cautious step forward, then another, then another, until he was kneeling by Mothman’s side, close enough to see the texture of the fur covering his body and the delicate patterns on his limbs and wings. The bullet had grazed his shoulder and wing, and the shoulder bled sluggishly, coating Mothman’s right arms in blood. The wound didn’t look too bad, though, which was good. Martin couldn’t imagine taking Mothman to a hospital.

“Okay,” Martin said softly. “I’m going to have to touch your shoulder now, all right?”

Mothman nodded slowly.

“So you can understand me,” Martin muttered. “That’s good.”

Mothman gave an irritated _chht,_ which Martin took to mean as _Of course I can understand you, I’m Mothman, not a damn kelpie._

Martin gently parted Mothman’s fur to examine the wound, and he hissed in pain but didn’t bite Martin or anything. Fortunately, it wasn’t deep, but it seemed to be very painful. 

“I’m going to take care of you, okay?” Martin murmured. “Don’t be scared.”

Mothman didn’t have pupils, but Martin could have sworn he rolled his eyes. 

“All right, I get it,” Martin said, tearing his old scarf into strips, “you’re not an animal. But I’m still going to take care of you.”

He fastened a makeshift bandage to Mothman’s shoulder. Hopefully it would hold until they could get back to Martin’s. The wing didn’t appear to be bleeding at all.

“What do I do about the wing?” Martin asked.

Mothman shrugged. 

“Will it heal?” Martin asked.

Mothman nodded.

“Can you walk?” Martin asked. 

Mothman chittered and reached up his hands. Martin stood up and helped Mothman to his feet. Mothman leaned on Martin’s arm, favoring a leg—he must have hurt it when he fell. Martin couldn’t help but notice how soft and fluffy his arms were.

“So, ah,” Martin said, “I’ve just been thinking of you as...a man? As in, he/him pronouns? Is that okay?”

Mothman nodded. 

“Okay,” Martin said. “I got out of my car about a twenty minute walk that way, let’s go there and then back to my flat so I can properly patch you up.”

Mothman narrowed his eyes, and his antennae were flat against his head.

“Oh, please,” Martin replied crossly. “I’m not going to dissect you or anything.”

Jon would probably be disappointed in him. Martin had no doubt that his boss would love to dissect Mothman. If, that is, Martin could ever convince him Mothman was real. Jon probably wouldn’t believe in Mothman if Mothman literally punched him in the face.

They didn’t make it five minutes before Mothman started to stumble and Martin had to practically drag him. Mothman hissed in pain every time his hurt ankle touched the ground, and after about a minute, Martin couldn’t take it anymore, because Mothman was clearly trying to hide his agony. Martin suspected he was afraid of seeming vulnerable. Prey instinct. 

“Can I carry you to the car?” Martin asked.

Mothman bared the sharp, shiny angles of his teeth.

“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Martin continued, undeterred. Mothman was terrifying, but he was also unable to stand unassisted at the moment. “Please. Let me help.”

Mothman stared at him with narrowed, shiny red eyes. 

“It’s either that or you have to walk another fifteen minutes on a sprained ankle,” Martin told him.

Mothman huffed in clear frustration, and Martin suppressed a giggle. Mothman reminded him a bit of his grumpy boss. 

“So,” Martin said, “are you going to let me carry you.”

Mothman nodded slowly and reluctantly. 

Martin hummed in satisfaction and scooped Mothman up into his arms. Mothman was terribly soft. Martin tried not to notice this fact. He tried not to dwell too long on how three of Mothman’s four arms clutched at his shoulders and neck. 

“Isn’t that better?” Martin said.

Mothman’s susurrus response sounded an awful lot like a grumble.

“You’re like a cat, you know that?” Martin told him as he resumed the trek back to the car. “Do you like milk?”

Mothman shook his head and glared at Martin.

“What do moths even eat, anyway?” Martin wondered aloud. “I suppose I’ll have to find out, won’t I? Do you like tea?”

Mothman chirped an affirmative.

“Oh, that’s good. Because I make a lot of tea.”

Mothman hadn’t stopped staring at him, and it was making Martin a little nervous. Maybe the urban legends were true, and Mothman was carnivorous. Maybe he was going to eat Martin for dinner. 

Martin kept up a stream of inane conversation as he carried Mothman back to the car. He knew Mothman couldn’t or wouldn’t respond, but the silence felt awkward. Mothman didn’t seem to mind, though. He was still watching Martin with attention Martin chose to think of as rapt rather than hungry. He told Mothman about his day at work, about his coworkers, about his intimidating, snappy, and surprisingly handsome boss, and Mothman listened. 

Finally, they emerged out of the woods and onto the road that Martin took to and from work every day. Martin’s Subaru was still parked where he’d left it. Mothman was small enough he could lie down in the backseat with minimal contortion. 

“Do you have a name?” Martin asked as he gently laid Mothman down on his uninjured side. “I feel weird calling you Mothman.”

Mothman shrugged.

“Can I give you a name?” Martin asked. “Just for me to use.”

Mothman nodded, head cocked inquisitively. Martin thought of his boss, who got grumpy whenever Martin so much as suggested Bigfoot could be real, and a wicked grin split his face.

“I’m going to call you Moth Jon,” he decided. “Just Jon for short.”

Moth Jon made a noise that Martin thought might be a laugh.

* * *

“It’s not much,” Martin told Moth Jon as he carried him into his apartment, “but it should be safe for you to stay here while you recover.”

Jon’s eyes widened as Martin turned on the light. Martin set him down gently on the couch and rummaged through his cabinets for the first aid kit. When he returned to the couch, Jon had turned on the lamp and was staring at it. He turned his head back to Martin as he walked back in, though, which made Martin nervous. 

Martin crouched down next to Moth Jon and started cleaning away the blood with a damp cloth. Jon grumbled quietly.

“You can tell me if it hurts,” Martin told him. “You’re just like Work Jon.”

He dried off Jon’s arms and chest, then started packing the wound with gauze. Martin was good with first aid, and Jon’s anatomy didn’t seem too different from a human’s, so the wound was easy to patch. He then moved on to the ankle. Jon was obviously biting back noises of pain. All Martin could do was finish the wound dressing quickly.

“There we go,” Martin said decisively. “All better. Can you take Ibuprofen?”

Moth Jon nodded eagerly. Martin fetched him some pain pills, then started in on making tea.

“How do you like your tea?” Martin asked. “I cannot believe I’m asking the Mothman how he likes his tea.”

Jon just blinked at him. Martin decided to make the tea how he made it for Work Jon—unbearably sweet. 

“I made it sweet,” he told Moth Jon. “Moths like sugar, right?”

Jon took the mug eagerly and started drinking the tea through a proboscis. At this point, Martin wasn’t sure any physical feature of Jon’s would surprise him. At least it was more environmentally friendly than a plastic straw. Moth Jon chirruped happily and snuggled comfortably into the blankets Martin had provided. 

Usually, Martin watched TV after work, but he didn’t want to subject Jon to all those flashing lights, so he sat down on his armchair with his poetry notebook. Really, he couldn’t help but write about the moth person drinking tea on his couch. He wrote about Moth Jon, his grey and brown fur, his eyespotted wings, his expressive antennae and eyes that glowed like lamps.

He was beautiful. No blurry photo or drunken description could capture the true beauty of the Mothman. The patterns on his fur and wings looked like they’d been woven by an expert artist. 

“Are you feeling any better?” Martin asked.

Jon shrugged with one shoulder. He’d already finished his tea, and stuck the empty mug out to Martin with a pleading look in his eyes. Martin chuckled.

“Okay, I’ll make you some more. Would you like something to eat?”

Jon just stared at him. Martin got him an apple. Jon took it with hesitation, but quickly tore into it with his razor-sharp teeth. He ate the whole thing, seeds and all. It was a tad intimidating, seeing Jon’s teeth tear through the apple like that, knowing they would just as quickly destroy Martin’s flesh.

“You’re hungry, huh?” Martin said softly. Moth Jon crossed his arms. “There’s no need to sulk.”

He grabbed an orange, which Jon devoured peel and all. He chirruped and patted his belly, presumably to indicate he was full, just as the teakettle started screaming.

Martin made him three more mugs of tea after that, and then Jon began drifting off to sleep. His eyes would drift closed, and then he would start awake, staring at Martin with wide eyes and fearful antennae. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Martin told him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Moth Jon shifted his wings.

“Okay,” Martin sighed. “It’s almost bedtime anyway. I’ll write poetry in my room for a bit, and then I’ll fall asleep. Good night, Moth Jon.”

Jon replied with a little cheep that sounded suspiciously like an echoed “good night.”

* * *

When Martin came out of his room the next morning, Moth Jon was gone, and the window was open. Martin had no idea why his heart ached a little.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: be invested in tma characters as monsters. fuck you.  
> yall: yes ma'am right away ma'am as many monsters as you'd like
> 
> anyway yes it hasn't even been a full day since chapter 1 but i have a brand to maintain and that brand is Buckwild Upload Schedule

Hiding his wounds was hard. Jon settled for shutting himself in his office and staying still, so his assistants wouldn’t notice how he favored a leg or winced whenever he moved his arm. He probably should have changed the shoulder bandage by now, but Martin had done so well on it. He’d go to a doctor at some point. For now, though, it was fine.

Last night had been...well, it had gone wrong in a lot of ways, and right in a lot of other ways. His wing wouldn’t heal properly for at least two weeks, which was a lot faster than if he hadn’t gotten his other wounds bandaged. And what were the chances that the man who found him would be Martin? Jon was certainly lucky it was Martin. Point Pleasant was a dangerous place for injured cryptids—Peter had nearly died two months ago from an unfortunate encounter with a bear trap.

Really, Jon couldn’t have picked a better person to take care of him. Martin’s archival work was sloppy, but his first aid and comfort skills were top notch. Despite his monstrousness, Jon had actually felt safe. Not safe enough to sleep, but safer than he’d expected. 

Someone knocked on Jon’s door. Jon called for them to come in, and the door open, letting in a flood of light—no, wait, that was just Martin bearing a mug of tea. Jon couldn’t stop staring at him, scanning for any indication that Martin suspected what Jon was.

“Made you some tea,” he stated unnecessarily. “Where should I…”

“Ah. Yes.” Jon cleared away some files to give Martin a spot to set the tea down. “Thank you, Martin.” 

Martin set down the tea and turned as if to leave, but vacillated in the doorway.

“What is it, Martin?” Jon asked, already suspecting the answer.

“I saw the Mothman last night,” Martin blurted, and Jon groaned internally. He was no master actor. This would be a tough dance.

“Right,” he replied flatly. “Of course you did.”

Martin folded his arms and scowled.

“I wouldn’t lie about this, Jon. I saw him. Didn’t get too close, just a glimpse, but I know what I saw.”

“Just a glimpse,” Jon scoffed in genuine disbelief. Martin lied so smoothly that Jon almost believed him, and he’d been there.

He didn’t think he’d ever forget Martin coming through the trees, the way the moon had lit him up like a beacon of salvation, the way Jon couldn’t tear his eyes away until sleep finally claimed him.

He’d also been dizzy with blood loss and pain at the time.

Jon sighed.

“I believe you believe it was Mothman,” he said, unable to summon his usual defensive venom. “But you can’t draw a conclusion without definitive proof.”

“What would you do,” Martin asked abruptly, “if Mothman were real?”

Jon blinked. What would “Work Jon” say?

“I’d want to study him, I suppose,” he replied. “See what makes him tick.”

Martin nodded contemplatively.

“You know what?” he said. “You’re right. I-I don’t really know what I saw. Sure wasn’t Mothman. Probably just a large bird. Enjoy your tea.”

Martin left, leaving Jon to stare at the tea—incredibly sweet, just how he liked it—and mull over their conversation. Martin had lied to him about something his job required he disclose. And Jon was terribly relieved. The incompetence that vexed Jon during the day turned out to be a great boon in the night. Martin, apparently, would lie to protect a thing the town had long deemed a monster, if a slightly beloved one.

It was all terribly complicated, and Jon didn’t quite know how to feel about the matter. He did know two things. One, Work Jon could not trust Martin. And two, Moth Jon could.

* * *

Martin couldn’t focus on his work. How was he supposed to focus on his work the day after he’d met Mothman? He googled Mothman, but couldn’t even focus on that: all the articles and conspiracy boards paled in comparison to the real thing. Mothman was a beautiful vision, all fuzz and felt and patterns. And he even could understand Martin and had a personality that was adorably grumpy.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Tim asked.

Martin considered his answer for a moment.

“If you met Mothman,” Martin asked, “what would you do?”

“Study him, probably,” Sasha interjected. “Try to find out all I could.”

“Does Mothman have human intelligence?” Tim asked. “In this hypothetical scenario.”

“Yes,” Martin said.

“Oh,” Sasha said, “Well, in that case, I’d ask all my questions directly. Wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

“And I’d fuck him,” Tim decided.

“What?” Martin sputtered. 

“Come on,” Tim scoffed. “Are you really saying you wouldn’t fuck the Mothman? What kind of gay are you?”

“I’d take the Mothman out for dinner first,” Martin laughed, like it was a joke, even though he had literally given the Mothman dinner. 

“I’m a lesbian,” Sasha said, “and I think I’d fuck the Mothman.”

“Mothman’s sexy,” Tim concluded.

The door to Jon’s office slammed open. “What is the racket out here?” he snapped. “You’re all supposed to be working.”

“Would you have sex with Mothman?” Tim asked. 

Jon choked on air. 

“Wh-what?” he sputtered.

“It’s for our research,” Tim said. “Mothman is sexy. Would you have sex with him.”

Jon drew himself up indignantly. “I would not,” he said stiffly. “I am asexual, Tim. I would therefore not consider having sex with the Mothman unless we were in a long-term relationship and had developed emotional intimacy.”

“In which case you would,” Tim prodded.

Jon made a noise of derision. 

“For the record,” Tim said, “I would have sex with the Mothman, and so would Martin and Sasha.”

“I didn’t ask,” Jon said.

“I never said I would have sex with Mothman,” Martin objected. 

“So you wouldn’t have sex with the Mothman?” Sasha asked.

“I never said that, either,” Martin said defensively. “I’m just saying, you know, there are worse boyfriends to have.”

“You’d date the Mothman?” Jon said. His eyebrows were steadily creeping towards his hairline.

“I mean,” Martin said, “you know, if Mothman asked me on a date, I wouldn’t say no. Hypothetically. I know Mothman probably isn’t real.”

“Hm,” Jon said contemplatively. “How do you know Mothman would be a good boyfriend? Maybe he’s mean. Maybe he snaps at people and doesn’t know how to apologize. Maybe his personality makes him fundamentally unlovable. Maybe he forgets to eat sometimes. Maybe he doesn’t know how to voice his emotions, leading to the slow death of every one of his meaningful relationships.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Martin said. “Are you okay? Who hurt you? Was it Mothman?”

Jon shrugged, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I’m just saying there are disadvantages to being a...what is the millennial term? Monsterfucker.”

“I’m not a monsterfucker in this hypothetical scenario,” Martin responded. “I’m a monster _lover._ There’s a difference.”

Jon just blinked at him. 

“Get back to work, all of you,” he finally said.

“This is an Institute that researches cryptids,” Sasha said. “I’m pretty sure talking about Mothman is work.”

Jon sighed and retreated back into his office.

“You know, Martin,” Tim said, “when I told you to get over your crush on Jon, I really wasn’t expecting you to fall for Mothman.”

“I don’t have a crush on Jon,” Martin insisted, “and I don’t have a crush on Mothman, either.”

“Mmhmm,” Tim hummed. “Sure.”

Martin sighed. He was an excellent liar, except when it came to love. He was quickly developing a crush on not one, but two Jons, one of whom was his boss and one of whom was Mothman, both of whom definitely wouldn’t date him. Not an ideal situation, but he couldn’t think of anyone he could go to for advice. 

He probably wouldn’t see Moth Jon again. The thought made him rather sad—he wanted to see Moth Jon again, maybe get another chance to run his hand over that grey and brown fur. But at least his ill advised feelings wouldn’t grow any further, and he could focus on just one unattainable man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on tungle at ceaselesslywatched. if anyone finds any cool moth jon art tag me so i can See It


	3. Chapter 3

Jon’s heating was broken, and he was fine. It was fine, he thought, as he shivered miserably under his cocoon of blankets, sipping his microwaved tea. At worse, he would just go comatose until his apartment warmed back up. Which could be weeks. It was fine. This was fine. He’d probably lose his job. His landlord would investigate, and he would be vulnerable while in moth form. It was fine. He was very sleepy. The blankets weren’t helping—Jon didn’t generate nearly as much body heat as a human.

Usually, when this happened, he just flew over to Peter’s, but Peter was out of town and he didn’t know anyone else he could go to. It was fine. The Archives was locked up for the weekend—he could probably get in, but there was no way it was heated on a Friday night.

Warmth. He needed warmth, and it wasn’t here, no matter how many mugs of tea he drank. His thoughts were sluggish and hard to grasp. All he knew was that he had to seek out warmth. He thought of warmth. Fire. Heat. Light. A face, a round face with wonderful eyes.

No, no, he couldn’t leave. He had to stay hidden. There was no hidden warmth outside. He couldn’t risk exposure. Last time he flew, those damned hunters had shot him out of the sky. And then Martin had saved him. Martin was warm. Martin had saved him.

Jon’s mind was scattered and fractured. Warmth.

He had to make a decision. To stay was death: the cold wouldn’t kill him, but whoever found him frozen would. He couldn’t count on Martin saving him again. He flew out into the night. The town was dark, he had to follow the light, had to find warmth before his muscles stopped moving. Follow the light. Follow the light.

He bumped against a pane of glass. Light on the other side. Warmth. There were baby blue curtains in the windows, and they tugged at Jon’s heart. He wanted curtains like that.

There were a few other moths gathered at the window, beating their bodies feebly towards the light. Jon hissed at them. His light. This was his light. 

The curtains opened, and Jon saw a wide-eyed face in the window. It was Martin, the light of his lamp shining through his hair like a halo. Martin, light. Martin, warmth. Jon’s eyes widened at this new sun.

Martin opened the window, and warmth rushed out, but Jon hesitated on the sill. He’d gotten Martin out of bed, apparently—he could see rumpled covers and a discarded notebook. He wanted to enter, but it suddenly hit him that he was perched on his employee’s windowsill. It was creepy. He was imposing. 

“You can come in, Moth Jon,” Martin invited, and there was a soft little smile on his lips. Like he was happy to see Jon.

He didn’t need to ask twice. Jon wriggled in through the window and lay on the carpet, shivering violently. It was warmer than his own apartment, but not warm enough. He couldn’t feel the carpet. He was numb and shaking.

“Oh,” Martin said softly. “You’re cold, aren’t you?”

Jon nodded and curled all four of his arms around himself.

“Poor thing. Let’s get you warmed up.”

Martin lifted Jon up easily—was he strong, or was Jon just light?—and slid him under the recently vacated covers with the utmost care. The bed was still deliciously warm from Martin’s body heat. Jon clasped at the blankets and curled them around himself, just barely stopping himself from smelling them, since that would be creepy. Martin brought him a scarf—hand-knitted, judging by the wonderful smell of wool—and tucked it carefully around Jon’s head. It didn’t help much. Layers only worked for fully warm-blooded creatures. 

“I’ll make some tea,” Martin said. Jon chittered a rejection—he’d had far too many cups of tea. “Or hot chocolate. Would you prefer hot chocolate?”

Jon nodded vigorously, and Martin left to make them some drinks. Jon just kept shivering. Martin’s lingering body heat helped, but without fully warm blood, the blankets weren’t much use, and Jon still had to fight against hibernation. He needed warmth.

It wasn’t that Jon was light, he decided, still dwelling on Martin’s strength. He’d seen Martin lift very heavy boxes in the Archives, his shirt straining to contain his arms. He scolded his traitorous brain. Yes, Martin’s arms were big, and yes, he had the perfect body for cuddles. That didn’t mean Jon had to act on that information.

Martin came back with the hot chocolate, and Jon’s eyes immediately locked on him. He had only one coherent thought in that moment, and it was _Martin warm._

“Here’s your hot chocolate,” Martin said cheerily, kindly, warmly. There was a candy cane in it. Sugar! Jon needed sugar. He wanted sugar.

Martin was very nice—he must be, to care for a monster like this. Jon was a man very hard to care about, whether he had wings or not, but Martin, apparently, cared easily. 

Martin nestled the mug next to Jon’s head so he could drink without emerging from the covers. It was thoughtful, and even as Jon drank the deliciously sweet hot chocolate through his proboscis, he couldn’t stop staring at Martin. He liked to stare at warm things, at bright things. The drink was warm, but it wasn’t enough. 

“So,” Martin said awkwardly, “I suppose I’ll just be in the—” he squeaked in surprise as Jon braved the cold to reach out an arm to grab Martin’s wrist. “O-oh. W...w…”

“Warm,” Jon rasped. Talking was a bit tricky in this form.

Martin’s eyes widened. “Oh, you can talk?”

Jon gave him an impatient look. “Warm,” he repeated.

Martin looked at Jon’s shivering arm and clapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, of course! You’re an insect! You need an external heat source. But what…” he trailed off as his gaze landed on the fuzzy hand clamped around his wrist. “Right. Right. Body heat. Um, move over, then.”

Jon chittered grumpily as Martin peeled back the blankets, letting in a rush of cold, but that irritation quickly faded once Martin was lying next to him, just a few inches away. Jon quickly closed that gap and wrapped his arms around Martin. His higher brain functions scolded him for acting so undignified and clingy. His hindbrain said “hnnng Martin Warm.” That was the part Jon listened to. He basked in Martin’s warmth—the man was positively a furnace. It was just for survival, he told himself. His enjoyment of holding Martin was just an immaterial bonus. He had to keep moving—it was advantageous to rub his fingers in slow circles on Martin’s back. 

“You _are_ cold,” Martin murmured. His cheeks were rosy—probably with cold. 

“Warmer now,” Jon said, tucking his face into Martin’s chest and letting his antennae tickle Martin’s chin. 

“Can I, ah,” Martin asked, “wrap my arms around you?”

Jon nodded, relieved that Martin wanted to reciprocate the touch. He didn’t want to impose or intrude. His back was still cold, and he couldn’t help but hum happily when Martin’s warm arms encircled him. One of Martin’s hands was buried in the fur around his neck, gently stroking it, and for a moment Jon was annoyed yet resigned. May as well let him pet—it was the least he could do for Martin’s help, even if it was a tad undignified. But then Martin’s fingers started scratching at the downy fluff right next to Jon’s skin, and Jon simply melted. He couldn’t help it. Martin’s fingers were so soft and warm and nice. 

“You like that?” Martin chuckled softly, and Jon realized with some consternation that he was making little chittering noises of contentment. He couldn’t stop, though, not with Martin’s fingers buried in his ruff like that, touching him gently. 

He remembered what Martin had said about the Mothman, and it hurt to know that Martin would date Mothman when he knew that Martin would never want to date Jon. Martin made Jon’s stomach do funny things.

“Are you feeling any better?” Martin asked.

“You’re warm,” Jon replied.

“And you’re very soft,” Martin told him, and Jon was grateful he didn’t blush. His wings shifted a little, but Martin couldn’t possibly know that meant he was flustered. 

Jon felt a stab of guilt. There was no way Martin would hold him that close if he knew Moth Jon’s true identity. It wasn’t fair to take advantage of Martin’s kindness like this. 

But just tonight couldn’t hurt. Just tonight, and going forward, Work Jon would be nicer to Martin, and Martin wouldn’t have to care for Moth Jon again. He’d be more careful. Wouldn’t be a burden.

But tonight, Jon could be warm. 

The tiredness that weighed down his eyelids was not the terrifying sluggishness of cold, but simply sleepiness that Jon could only resist for so long. He drifted off nestled in Martin’s warm arms, nicer than any fireplace and apparently far more effective at trapping moths. 

Martin was a burning bulb, and Jon couldn’t resist him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you draw mothman jon, make sure to tag me on tumblr! my url is ceaselesslywatched


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> domesticity.......
> 
> edit: it has been pointed out to me that they eat breakfast twice in this chapter. in light of this correction, i will not be editing the chapter in any way. fuck it second breakfast. thank you.

To Martin’s surprise, Moth Jon was still there when he woke up. He was almost on top of Martin, starfished, his eyes closed in contented sleep. Martin’s heart forgot to beat for a few moments at the trusting way Jon’s two right arms flopped across his chest. 

_You’re not special,_ he reminded himself. _You just happened to have a light on._

Moth Jon, though, was special. One-of-a-kind, yes, but there was more to it than that. He had such a clear and endearing personality, and showed it in the cutest ways. He was beautiful too, and mesmerizing, and wonderfully soft. The perfect boyfriend, really, Martin mused idly, then froze at the implications of that thought.

Moth Jon was obviously looking to him for help, nothing more. Martin didn’t have the time or emotional energy for this. One unattainable Jon was enough.

Maybe they could be friends, though. Martin would quite like to befriend this strange creature who stared with curious eyes and liked his drinks achingly sweet. 

It was a Saturday, which meant Martin didn’t have to go in for work, which meant he could stay in bed with Jon. Martin took a closer look at Moth Jon. He felt like he could take a thousand closer looks at Moth Jon and notice something new every time. He had long hair that looked almost human, except for the odd silver-white color and brown patterns. His antennae seemed very delicate. Martin wondered what their function was. Maybe just ornamentation.

Martin could tell just from putting a hand out of the covers that it was a bit too cold for his liking, even though he’d turned the heat all the way up last night and put a space heater in the room. Which explained why Jon was clinging to him so closely.

Martin looked at the clock. 9:30. Were moths nocturnal? It would make sense.

He chuckled to himself. There was another similarity between the Jons. Work Jon insisted on staying at the Archives so late that Martin wouldn’t be surprised if he were nocturnal.

His stomach rumbled. Jon probably needed some food, too. Maybe a fruit plate, eggs, toast, and bacon. Some nice variety.

He didn’t want to get out of bed, though. Moth Jon was so very soft.

Just as he thought this, Moth Jon started to stir.

“Oh, hello,” Martin said softly. “You’re awake.”

Jon looked at him and froze, wide-eyed, staring at Martin like a predator ready to pounce. He quickly squirmed away from Martin with a franticness that seemed more like prey, then started shivering, wiggled back over, and wrapped his arms around Martin again.

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin said. “If you, ah, don’t want to touch me, I’m sure I can find another way to get heat under the blankets.”

Jon shook his head. 

“D-don’t want to impose,” he said.

“O-oh, no, you’re fine! It’s. Um. It’s nice, actually. I’m always happy to take care of you.”

Martin’s words came out a lot more tender than intended, and he quickly broke eye contact with Moth Jon.

“I didn’t know you could talk,” he said, changing the subject. 

“It’s hard,” Jon complained. 

“That makes sense,” Martin replied. “I mean, your teeth don’t look human, and you’ve got a tube in there.”

Jon wiggled an antenna in a manner Martin interpreted as raising an eyebrow.

“What?” he said defensively. “It’s a tube!” Jon’s hands shifted. “Hey, you have four hands, would it be easier to write?”

“Not right now,” said Jon. “Warm.”

Martin giggled. Jon was trying so hard to act derisive and aloof, he really was, but he clutched Martin with a desperation that indicated a need for more than warmth. 

“I’m going to have to get up at some point, you know,” he said. “To make us breakfast.”

Moth Jon blinked at him. “Us?”

“You need food too, silly,” Martin laughed. 

“Fine,” Jon grumbled.

“Have I told you you’re just like Work Jon?” Martin said fondly. “He doesn’t like eating, either. Forgets a lot, and I worry about him, but at least I have an excuse to drag him to lunch.”

Martin thought he was getting pretty good at reading Moth Jon’s expressiveness, but the look the man (mothman?) gave him then was inscrutable.

“Tell me,” Moth Jon said in that low rasp of his, “about Work Jon.”

Martin hesitated for a moment. He’d talked about his crush with Tim and Sasha, but he’d known them for ages. He’d met Moth Jon twice. And there’s the whole name thing. He decided to start with the facts.

“Well,” Martin began, “he’s my boss. And he doesn’t even believe in cryptids. Like, at all. And we work at an Institute that investigates cryptids.” He huffed. “I mean, really! I’ve shown him so much proof, and I don’t even know why he has this job if he’s going to be a dick about cryptids. That’s why I decided to call you Moth Jon. A little joke, you know, because he’d hate that. And he forgets to eat sometimes, and he’s a bit snippy.” Martin hated the dopey grin that was currently spreading across his face. “And he’s very smart, he really knows a lot about lore and such, and he tries to show how he cares but doesn’t really know how.” He chuckled. “He’s very sweet, really, when you get to know him. And I really like, you know, bringing him tea and telling him stupid jokes, because sometimes I’ll get to see him smile a little, and he has the nicest smile, Moth Jon, he really does.” 

Martin clamped his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to talk about Jon like that. It just...slipped out.

Moth Jon was staring at him like he’d grown a second head. 

“Don’t look at me like that!” Martin defended. 

“Crush,” Moth Jon said, almost wonderingly.

“Okay, fine, fine! Yeah, okay, maybe it’s a bit of a crush.”

Moth Jon kept staring at him.

“I know he’s my boss. I know! It’s not like I can help it, Moth Jon.” Martin sighed. “I fall for people far too easily.”

“Why Jon?” Moth Jon asked. “He. He seems. Mean.”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Martin said crossly. “Okay, yes, he snaps sometimes, and he doesn’t really understand how to talk to people, but he’s not mean, and I like him, okay? Stop staring at me with those big ol’ eyes.”

Moth Jon looked away sadly, and Martin felt guilty.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “You can look at me if you want. Sorry.”

Jon’s eyes locked back onto him with surprising quickness. 

“Why do you do that, anyway?” Martin asked. “The staring, I mean. I’m not a lamp.”

“Light,” Moth Jon replied simply. 

Heat rushed into Martin’s cheeks. He was cuddling with a mothman who had just called him a light. When had this become his life? How was he supposed to keep his crush in check now?

“Oh,” Martin said softly. “Oh, well, that’s nice, I suppose.”

Jon ducked his head, seemingly embarrassed. 

“Would you like to come back?” Martin blurted.

Jon looked back up, cocking his head in curiosity.

“I mean,” Martin rushed to explain himself, “that, um, I like hanging out with you—” he cringed internally, cuddling was hardly hanging out— “and I’d like to see you again, so, um, my window’s always unlocked?”

Jon’s wings shifted in a sudden, frenzied movement that ruffled the blankets. 

“Okay,” Jon whispered, the word rendered almost incoherent by the sussuruss of his clacking teeth.

They stayed in bed for at least another hour, until the sun and the heater warmed the house enough that Martin could leave the bed and make some breakfast. He made them both eggs, toast, bacon and fruit, which he put on a tray and brought back to the bed. Jon devoured everything on the plate without using cutlery, and Martin found himself hypnotized by the efficient shredding of Jon’s razor-sharp teeth. His mouth was certainly not human—no wonder talking was hard.

He found a spare notebook in his nightstand, and gave it to Moth Jon along with a pen. Moth Jon cradled the notebook and took a moment to sniff the paper.

“What do you want to do today?” Martin asked. “I-I mean, if you want to stay. It’s okay if you want to leave, but, um, it’s nice to have you here.”

Jon spent a few moments scribbling in the notebook, then shows the page to Martin.

_  
Warm  
I would like to read a book  
Get to know you?  
Cook something sweet!  
Whatever you want to do  
It’s fine  
(but if you want to watch the second captain america movie i’ve also been wanting to see it)  
I saw you have a few notebooks do you write? _

Martin giggled. The list was terribly endearing.

“Okay,” he said. “Um. Let’s go item by item. We’ll make sure to stay warm. I have a few books you could read. I’d love to get to know you, too. And I’ve already seen the second Captain America movie but I really liked it. So I’d like to see it again. And, um.” He blushed. “It’s just poetry.”

“Yours?”

“Y-yeah.” Martin chuckled self-deprecatingly. “It’s not very good.”

Moth Jon made little grabby hands. Martin frowned.

“You want to read it?”

Jon nodded.

“You’re sure?”

Jon nodded again. Martin fished one of his recent notebooks out of his nightstand and handed it to Jon.

“O-okay. Here. It’s a bit disorganized. I’d read it to you, but, well, I’d probably die of embarrassment.”

Jon was clearly no longer listening—he’d already started reading the poetry with rapt eyes. 

“Would you like breakfast?” Martin asked.

Jon just hummed, which Martin took as an affirmative. Even if it wasn’t, well, if Moth Jon was anything like Work Jon, he needed to be given food whether he wanted it or not. 

“I’m going to make some breakfast,” Martin said. 

He started to slide out from under the covers. One of Jon’s hands snapped out and grabbed his wrist, and Jon’s red eyes side-eyed Martin. 

“You need food if you want to be warm,” Martin told him. 

Moth Jon grumbled, released Martin’s wrist, and turned back to the notebook. Martin slipped out of bed and into his slippers before padding into the kitchen. He got started with eggs, then toast and fruit and bacon. A nice platter of anything a moth could want. 

The apartment was still cold, but it felt warmer, somehow, as if it was sunlit by the knowledge of Moth Jon’s presence. It was nice not to be alone. Martin couldn’t help the giddy little smile creeping across his face. He actually was caring for a hot guy staying in his apartment. And yes, that guy was Mothman. That fact was becoming less and less of an issue, Martin thought. He’d quite like to give Mothman a kiss. There was absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to give Mothman a kiss. 

He brought the two plates back to the bedroom to find Moth Jon still engrossed in his poetry. 

“Do you like it?” he asked shyly as he set the plates down on the little end tables on each side of the bed. 

Moth Jon’s antennae twitched and he chirruped contemplatively.

“Jury’s still out, then,” Martin chuckled. 

Jon gave him an irritated look. “Let me finish.”

“All right,” Martin hummed. He slid back under the covers, and Jon immediately wriggled his way under Martin’s arm. 

“Warm,” Jon said defensively.

Martin started in on his toast. 

“You’ll have to eat eventually,” he told Jon.

“Let me finish,” Jon grumbled.

Martin laughed. “You’re just like Work Jon, you know? He told me once that he was going to eat lunch after finishing a statement follow-up, and he still hadn’t eaten when I left at 5:30. I practically had to force him to eat a cereal bar.” 

Jon muttered something raspy and indistinct. He was already almost all of the way through the notebook.

“You’re a fast reader, huh.” The egg was a bit overcooked, but Martin figured Jon wouldn’t mind. “Your breakfast’ll get cold if you don’t finish soon.”

Jon glared at him. “Stop nagging.”

“Okay, okay.”

Martin finished his breakfast, and Jon finished the poetry. He then moved on to his own plate of food, and devoured it with great enthusiasm. He was obviously starving, and Martin couldn’t see why he hadn’t just stopped reading. 

“How did you like it?”

Jon patted his belly happily.

“Oh, well, yes, it’s just toast and stuff. What about the poetry?”

Martin cared very much about Moth Jon’s opinion of his poetry. He didn’t usually show it to other people. Just the thought of someone like Work Jon reading it made him shudder.

Moth Jon tilted his head and considered for a moment.

“It’s not very good,” he said. “But I love it.”

“Oh. Uh. Th...thanks?”

Jon shut the notebook, and his wings trembled. 

“Are you any warmer?” Martin asked.

Jon nodded. “Second Captain America movie?”

“All right,” Martin said. “Let’s watch a movie.”

Martin made his signature garlic popcorn as Jon sat cocooned in blankets on the couch. He put on the movie and sat down by Jon.

“You’re a blanket hog,” he told Moth Jon.

Moth Jon grumbled and begrudgingly rearranged the blankets until the two of them were huddled together in a warm nest of soft fabric, with Martin leaning against the arm of the couch. At first, Jon awkwardly kept his distance, but as the movie started and his wide eyes remained glued to the screen, Jon began to lean into Martin. 

After at least thirty minutes of waffling, Martin put his arm around Moth Jon. The effect was instantaneous. Jon immediately snuggled up under Martin’s arm and tucked his head into Martin’s neck. He was wrapped totally in the warm cocoon of blankets, only reaching an arm out to snatch a handful of garlic popcorn every now and then. 

“You look comfortable,” Martin chuckled.

“Shhhh,” Jon admonished him.

They watched the movie in silence, except for Jon squeaking a little during action sequences. When the credits started rolling, Jon looked up at Martin with those wide, red eyes.

“What now?” Martin asked. “We’ve got the whole day ahead of us.”

“Cook?” Jon asked.

Martin winced. “Um. I don’t think I have much left in my pantry, we’d have to go out to the supermarket…”

“Oh.”

“What were you thinking of making?”

Jon reached for a pen and piece of scratch paper on the coffee table. He scribbled down something and showed it to Martin.

_I was hoping to make some risotto for you. Also some blueberry muffins._

“Mmmm, yeah, I’ll definitely have to go down to the store.” Martin had a brilliant idea. “Wanna come with me? I have an idea of how to disguise you. ”

“Don’t wanna use human form,” Jon replied.

“You have a human form?” Martin yelped. “Wait, what?”

Jon huffed and grabbed back the paper, scribbling something on the other side. 

_Yes. How else do you think we could have survived this long? I can switch between human and moth form, as can most others of what you call “cryptids”._

Martin read the piece of paper a few times before it really sunk in. 

“Wow,” he breathed. “That makes so much sense!” He looked down at Moth Jon. “Do you think, um. Do you think maybe I could see what you look like as a human?”

Jon looked away and his wings fluttered in clear embarrassment.

“Okay, okay. Maybe not today, it’s fine.” Martin laughed. “I wish I could tell Work Jon about you. I-I won’t, of course. It’s just that, well, I suggested that maybe cryptids could have human disguises once, and he just glared at me until I left his office.”

Moth Jon cringed. 

“I know, he’s pretty oblivious. Anyway. Do you want to stay here while I go shopping, or do you want to come with?”

Jon’s antennae seemed confused. “Come with?”

“Well, I was thinking that, if we wrapped you up in enough of my ski clothes, no one could tell, you know?”

Jon made a chattering little harrumph noise. “Wouldn’t work.”

“Well, we won’t know until we try. It’ll be fun! Like pulling a little heist. Like that scene in, um, you ever read Animorphs? No? Okay, never mind.”

Jon nodded decisively. “Okay. We try.”

* * *

Kimmy Lester had been working at the Town N’ Country Grocery Retailer for approximately two months, and in that time had learned to mind her own business. People didn’t like people poking into their business at the grocery store. Kimmy had seen her fair share of crazy people, but that wasn’t because of the store—Point Pleasant attracted plenty of conspiracy wackjobs. 

It certainly wasn’t unusual to see people covered from head to toe in winter gear. Still, there was something odd about the man.

The ski clothes he was wearing were obviously too big for him, and yet the coat seemed to struggle to hold something in. His goggles were tinted brown, but there was something red behind them. And some sort of odd fabric peeked down from the bottom of the coat. He didn’t speak. His...friend? Partner? Whatever he was, he took care of all the conversation.

As they left, giggling a little, Kimmy realized that the thing poking out from under the coat looked almost like the wing of a moth.

Kimmy shrugged. Mothman cosplayers weren’t unheard of. Her shift was almost over, anyway.

* * *

“I think that went quite well,” Martin giggled as they returned to his apartment. 

Moth Jon hummed in agreement.

“That cashier looked kinda weirded out, though.”

Moth Jon laughed, raspy and hesitant.

“How about I get started on the risotto, and you make the muffins?”

Moth Jon chirped in agreement and started unloading the baking ingredients. Martin almost burned the risotto because he was too busy being fascinated by Jon baking. Most of Jon’s feathers and fur was dark, and he was a bit messy, so he ended up covered with splotches of flour. He was very efficient—four arms meant twice the whisking. 

Jon noticed Martin staring and swatted his arm with a flour and fur covered hand, leaving a white handprint on Martin’s dark blue sweater. 

“Oh, really?” Martin snickered. “Is that how we’re playing it?”

He picked up a handful of flower and ruffled Moth Jon’s hair. Moth Jon squawked indignantly and grabbed Martin’s arm, sending up a puff of flour. Martin coughed, and Moth Jon made a chittering cackle. 

“It’s on,” Moth Jon hissed. 

Martin reached back to give the risotto a quick stir before he threw a handful of flour at Moth Jon’s bare chest. Jon yelped and drew two floured palms across Martin’s face. Martin closed his eyes and sneezed, but opened his eyes quick enough to run flour over a whole of one of Jon’s arms. Jon lunged at Martin and ran all four hands down his sweater, pinning Martin’s floured arms to his chest. 

“Fighting dirty, huh?” Martin laughed. 

Jon grinned, showing off his sharp teeth, and shoved Martin against the counter. Martin knew the back of his sweater would end up with a line of flour. He was also acutely aware of just how close Moth Jon was. Not that they hadn’t been this close before. 

“You’ve beat me,” Martin said melodramatically. “It simply isn’t fair. Twice the arms! How can I compete with twice the arms?”

“Truce?” Jon suggested.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” Martin sighed. 

Jon released his grip on Martin, and Martin missed it acutely. 

“I have to go make some risotto, you brute,” he told Jon. 

“Fine,” Jon grumbled. 

Martin poured another two cups of stock into the risotto and a few handfuls of parmesan, while Jon returned to the blueberry muffins. Martin was covered in flour. His handprints remained plastered all over Jon’s dark and fuzzy body. Martin quite liked touching Jon. 

“Finished the risotto,” Martin announced. “Here, try it.”

“Busy,” Jon replied as he spooned the mix into cupcake papers. 

“C’mon,” Martin cajoled, prodding a spoonful of risotto at Jon’s face. “It’s delicious.”

Jon opened his mouth and allowed Martin to feed him the spoonful of risotto. His eyes widened as he chewed. 

“Delicious,” Jon proclaimed. 

“Told you,” Martin said triumphantly. 

They put the blueberry muffins in the oven and ate the risotto together, just using forks to eat it straight out of the wok, and it felt far more intimate than sharing a bed. Martin accepted that he was starting to fall for this moth of a man. A man he had made muffins with. A man marked by his floury handprints. 

Martin decided that he was going to have to tell Moth Jon how he felt. But...maybe not at that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on tumblr at ceaselesslywatched


	5. Chapter 5

“Peter. You’re dodging the question. What do I do.”

Peter took another sip of his coffee. His grey-brown hair lay tousled under a Carhart beanie—he looked decidedly out of place in the coffee shop, which made sense, considering he was Bigfoot. “I’m not dodging the question. I really don’t know why you think I know anything about relationships.”

“You’ve seduced Elias well enough,” Jon pointed out. Elias was truly head over heels for Bigfoot. It was a little disturbing.

“I have done nothing of the sort. The man simply can’t leave well enough alone. He just likes the mystery of it all,” Peter sniffed. 

“Martin once asked him why he used mating calls if he wasn’t prepared for Bigfoot to come barreling out of the woods with a raging boner, and Elias looked him dead in the eye and asked what he thought the point of hunting for Bigfoot was.” It was a rather unpleasant memory. Tim had laughed about it for weeks. 

Peter snorted into his croissant. “He’s giving the mating calls too much credit. They’re like if someone connected Siri saying ‘hot singles in your area’ to a boombox and played it outside your window. It’s insufferable.” He sipped his coffee again. “You could try that. Martin might find it endearing.”

“I am not doing that, Peter.”

“I really don’t know what else to tell you. Your Institute is all about investigation, right? Truth and all that. Why not tell him how you feel? That’s what people do, right?”

“I can’t just tell him,” Jon groaned. “I’m his boss! And I’m, you know, me.”

“That’s a good point,” Peter hummed contemplatively. “Have you considered just bottling up your feelings? That’s what I do.”

“Yes. I think I’ll do that. Thank you, Peter.”

“Please don’t take my advice on this. I don’t want to be blamed for how badly things go with you and Martin.”

“Speaking of which, are you ever going to talk to Elias?” Jon sniped.

“I’m actually catfishing him on Grindr using a stock photo. It’s hilarious.”

Jon choked on his tea. Peter was obviously not joking.

“Why on Earth are you catfishing him?” he demanded. “You know Elias would date you, Peter.”

“Exactly.”

* * *

“It’s not that funny,” Jon complained.

The sounds of Georgie’s laughter continued to echo over the phone.

“Get ahold of yourself,” Jon told her. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she wheezed. “It’s just...only you would get yourself into this situation.”

“It’s not that ridiculous.”

“It really is.”

“Well, then, since you know so much, tell me what I’m supposed to do,” Jon snapped.

“Jon, I am this close to flying down and fixing this mess myself, but the D.C. airport is hell. Okay, so from what you’ve told me, it seems that Martin is already falling for you.”

“That’s—”

“Let me finish. You need to tell him that both his crushes are the same. That’s a nonnegotiable. Even if it weren’t for the romance thing, withholding your true identity is a violation of his boundaries.”

“I know,” Jon sighed.

“But. I think that first, you need to be nicer to that man.”

“I know,” Jon groaned. “I’ve been trying. It’s easier when I’m physically incapable of running my stupid mouth.”

“Jon. Positive thinking. He literally told you he had a crush on Work Jon. You just have to be nicer. For one week, you’re going to woo this man, or at least be pleasant. And then you’re going to tell him.”

“What if he never wants to see me again?”

“Tough. You owe him the truth.”

Georgie was right, of course. It was actually comforting: Jon didn’t have to worry about the outcome. He had to tell Martin anyway. He owed Martin that and so much more. 

“Right. Okay. Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

Jon came into work on Monday ready to be nice to Martin if it killed him. Surely it wouldn’t be hard. He just had to act like a normal human. Which he wasn’t. But how hard could it be? Martin already liked him. Jon could be warm and fuzzy even when he wasn’t literally warm and fuzzy.

He sat at his desk, door to his office open, and waited for Martin to come in. He had a plan. First, he would make Martin tea. Then, he would be nice. Then, he would ask Martin to lunch. He would do that for a week. And then he would tell Martin and let the chips fall where they may.

At 8:31, Jon got a call from Martin.

“Hello, Martin.”

“Hey, Jon,” Martin sniffed. He sounded terrible, his words made almost unintelligible by congestion. “Sorry. I don’t think I can come into work today.”

“Are you sick?” Jon immediately winced. Why did he ask? Martin was obviously sick. 

“Y-yeah, I’ve got a pretty bad fever. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for being sick. Can you go to see a doctor?”

“I have an appointment scheduled. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Well, yeah, but I’m tough. Don’t worry about me. I have medicine.”

“Isn’t there someone who can stay with you? To take care of you.” Another wrong thing to say, Jon knew. If there was, Martin would have called them.

“No.” Martin didn’t elaborate. “Really, Jon, I’ll be fine.” He immediately erupted into a painful-sounding coughing fit.

“Right. Well, get some rest. Take care of yourself, all right?”

“Okay.”

Martin hung up, and Jon sat there for a minute just holding his phone. Martin was obviously very sick. Jon knew exactly how it felt to be home shuddering with fever with no one there to help. It was hell—moths caught worse sicknesses than humans. Martin was suffering. Jon couldn’t let that happen, not after everything Martin had done for him.

The path forward was clear. Jon texted Elias letting him know he’d be out doing field work for the day. Elias didn’t respond—he was in the woods looking for Bigfoot. 

Jon stopped by the grocery store and bought some canned soup, cough drops, and crackers, plus a few other sickness necessities. As he checked out, he fondly remembered shopping for risotto and muffin ingredients with Martin. Martin was right: it was fun to disguise his moth features and go shopping. Like a heist. He realized he wanted to do more things like that with Martin. Stupid teenager things. His heart ached. 

“Someone sick in the house?” the cashier asked.

“Just taking care of a friend,” Jon replied. 

Halfway through the drive to Martin’s house, Jon realized he had no idea where he was going. He’d been addled and not driving a car both times he’d been there. Jon also remembered that Work Jon had no reason to know where Martin lived, and Martin may not take kindly to him just showing up unannounced. He texted Martin.

>I purchased some soup and crackers for you. Can I come over and help you out?

>>jon, really, it’s fine

>I would like to help.

>>...okay. If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble

>>420 Mothman Way suite 10. just let urself in

Jon gave a startled laugh. Of course Martin lived in the Mothman Way apartments. He restarted the car and drove over. 

He opened the door to Martin’s apartment with a soft “hello?”

“Hey,” a weak voice responded from the bedroom. 

Jon set his grocery bags down on the counter and headed into the bedroom. Martin was huddled under the blankets, perspiration beading on his forehead. The nightstand was littered with dirty kleenexes. Martin looked miserable, but he brightened a little when he saw Jon. Jon’s breath caught at that—he was actually making Martin feel better. 

Jon walked over and placed a hand on Martin’s forehead. It was blazing hot. Jon longed to get under the covers with Martin—he was a sucker for warmth. 

“Would you like some soup?” Jon asked.

Martin shook his head miserably. “Too nauseous,” he rasped. 

“All right. I’ll get you some crackers. Would you like some tea?”

Martin nodded. “Licorice, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“It’s not. Too much trouble, that is.”

Martin winced. “Sorry to burden you.”

“Martin,” Jon said softly. “You’re not a burden. I promise. I’m happy to take care of you, because...you’re my friend.” 

“Oh,” Martin murmured. “Oh. That’s...that’s nice.”

Jon nodded, a sudden knot settling in his chest. “Right. I’ll just make that tea, then.”

He made Martin tea and brought him some crackers on a little plate. Martin gave him an odd look as he set them down on the nightstand, moving aside some of the used tissues with a grimace.

“Why are you doing this,” Martin whispered. “Helping me.”

“Um. Would you prefer I didn’t? I-I can leave, if you—”

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just.” Martin chuckled weakly. “I didn’t really think you wanted to be friends.”

Jon sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. He awkwardly smoothed the blanket over Martin’s side. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I’m not exactly the...the nicest man. I do want to be friends, Martin.” _More than friends._ “I apologize if I gave you a different impression.”

“You did,” Martin mumbled. “I just wanted to impress you. But I’m not really good at my job, so…well, anyway, after everything, we’re not really typical coworkers, are we? I thought we could be more equals. Friends. But I’m not very good at that either.”

Jon carded a hesitant hand through Martin's hair. Martin closed his eyes and hummed happily. His hair would probably be softer if it wasn’t drenched in sweat. 

“You’re a good man, Martin,” Jon told him. “And a good friend. The rest is irrelevant.”

Martin peeked a hand out of the covers and took Jon’s hand. Jon fought back the urge to brush his lips over Martin’s knuckles. 

“Can you stay?” he whispered timidly.

“As long as you need me,” Jon promised. 

“Sorry, you might get sick.”

Jon laughed. “I’m rather more hearty than I look.” He couldn’t catch human diseases. 

“You better not catch anything.”

“I won’t.”

* * *

Martin went to sleep pretty soon after that, which meant Jon could look at him with unmasked fondness. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Martin had always drawn Jon’s eye. At first, Jon thought it was due to Martin’s tendency towards mishaps—always best to keep an eye on him before he spilled tea on another file. But now he knew it was something else. It was the same reason he was driven to stare at and fly to flame and light. 

“You’re my light, Martin,” he murmured. 

“Whuzzat?” Martin grumbled.

Jon froze. “Ah. You’re awake.”

“Sleepy,” Martin muttered. “Can’t sleep.”

“How can I help?”

“I listen to poetry on audiobook sometimes,” Martin mumbled. “Could you...read to me?”

“All right,” Jon told him. “But I’m not reading any Keats.”

Martin chuckled wearily. “That’s fair.”

Jon grabbed a poetry anthology he’d seen earlier from Martin’s nightstand and began to read. His words were halting at first, but he soon got into the rhythm, and then realized that all the poems were love poems. Fitting enough. Martin seemed to be enjoying it—he was relaxing, at least. 

As he read, Jon played gently with Martin’s hair. Martin snuggled into the pillow and made a little noise of pleasure. Jon was reminded of his own happy chittering in Martin’s arms. 

He made Martin happy. Martin made him happy. Maybe they could have this.

* * *

Jon made sure to wake Martin up on time for his appointment. He half-carried a grumbling Martin into the car and headed to the doctor’s office. Martin leaned on him during the whole appointment, curling their arms together rather affectionately. 

They got their Tamiflu and left. Their hands didn’t untangle. 

“Thank you,” Martin said, rendered a bit more lucid by medication. 

“Don’t mention it,” Jon told him. “Really, Martin, I’m happy to help you.”

“I’m supposed to be the one helping people, y’know?” Martin sighed. “That’s...that’s what I do. I mean, I’m not good at much else. So I help people.”

“It’s okay to let yourself be helped,” Jon told him. 

“Hypocrite,” Martin snorted. “It’s okay to leave work on time, too.”

“That’s fair,” Jon grumbled.

“Did you just agree with me?” Martin demanded incredulously with a fevered giggle. “Are you sure this isn’t a fever dream?”

“I can be nice!” Jon objected. “I can be, you know, warm and fuzzy.”

“Jonathan Sims, warm and fuzzy. That’ll be the day.”

Jon bit back his retort, resisting the urge to tell Martin exactly how warm and fuzzy he could be. Well, fuzzy at least. Martin was the warm one. 

“I think I’m feeling well enough for soup,” Martin decided. “I’ll make some once you drop me off.”

Jon blinked. “O-oh. You don’t want me to stay? T-that’s all right, I suppose…”

Martin flushed. “I-I didn’t know that you, um, wanted to stay. Don’t you, you know, have work? I mean, it’s really nice to have you, but you don’t have to stay.” 

“Yes, I do,” Jon told him. 

Martin gave him a suspicious look. “Did Tim or someone put you up to this?”

“Martin. I need you to know that I am helping you of my own free will because I care about you.”

Martin blinked, wide-eyed and blushing deep red. “O-oh. Right. Well. That’s...that’s nice. That’s really nice.”

“Now let’s go home and I’ll make you some soup.”

Jon wondered if this counted as “wooing.” Was making soup for a sick paramour “wooing?” It didn’t feel like a grand romantic gesture. It was just something that Jon knew he should do, so he did it. 

He risked a glance over at Martin, collapsed into the passenger seat, and wondered if Martin was properly wooed yet. He didn’t look wooed. He just looked feverish. Jon risked another glance at Martin, purely for his own selfish purposes. Martin was very nice to look at, after all. Like a lamp. Jon would rather look at Martin than a lamp any day. 

When had he fallen this hard? 

It wasn’t when they first met, Jon knew. He’d actually been annoyed with Martin at their first meeting, convinced he was some incompetent cryptid hunter too uncharismatic to be a YouTuber. He winced at some of the cutting digs he’d made at Martin’s competence. 

Martin wasn’t a bad research assistant, truth be told. He was even competent. But more importantly, he was kind. He’d taken in a monster and kept his mouth shut about it. And Jon felt safe in his arms. Jon didn’t trust easy, but he trusted Martin.

Jon swore and quickly recorrected his course as he almost veered off the road.

“Distracted?” Martin chuckled. 

“No. It’s snowy.”

“Sure,” Martin snickered. “And you used to get on my case about zoning out at work.”

“Sorry about that,” Jon mumbled. “I’ve been a bit of an ass.”

“I’ll let it go,” Martin hummed. “If you make me some soup.”

“I will. And then, um, once you’re feeling better...I have two things I want to talk to you about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yell about moth jon in my ask box over at ceaselesslywatched on tumblr


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay yes i KNOW i said chapter 6 was gonna be the last one but then it got to 4500 words and i had to split it in two so sorry but yall gotta wait one more chapter for them to Kees
> 
> cw for a scuffle. there's a gun and also someone sorta gets stabbed

Martin was out of commission for another ten days, typical of the flu. Every day, Jon came in to make Martin some soup and some tea. Every day, Martin protested, saying that Jon had better things to do than take care of him. Jon stubbornly continued to remind Martin to take his medicine and do all the things that Jon would never have done in Martin’s shoes. It was the least he could do, after Martin had saved his life twice. 

Elias made a few comments about Jon slacking off, but Jon reminded him that he’d gotten the payroll in two days late because he was busy trying to find Bigfoot, and Elias shut up about it. Jon knew that Tim and Sasha would gladly help him care for Martin if he needed a break, but a selfish part of him wanted Martin all to himself. 

Finally, they went back to work, and Jon suddenly felt very awkward. Martin kept getting him tea and helping him organize the Archives and being overall very pleasant. And, on the second day Martin was back, Jon began Operation Woo Martin in earnest.

“Day one,” Jon muttered into the mirror, his hands clenched on the corner of sink. “Okay. Okay. Let’s do this.”

On his way over to work, Jon stopped by Hot Shots and picked up a caramel latte with extra whip: Martin’s favorite. A sweet drink for a sweet man. He also bought a scone. He cradled the cup and bag tenderly in his hands, careful not to drop them. He would present them with a casual wink and some sort of witty one-liner that would make Martin see how much Jon cared. He would get Martin lunch today. He would show that he could be someone worthy of Martin’s affections. 

Jon strode into the Archives and saw Martin tapping away at his computer. Jon waffled in the doorway, suddenly unsure of himself. Why was this so hard? Jon knew Martin liked him. He didn’t have to worry about reciprocation. Martin would probably totally accept his secret identity, if their previous interactions were anything to go by. And yet Jon was terrified. 

Jon tentatively walked up to Martin’s desk and cleared his throat. Martin looked up, his eyes still a little bleary with fatigue. Jon thrust the drink and scone at him. Martin stared at them.

“For you,” Jon told him. “Caramel latte and a blueberry scone.”  
“My favorite,” Martin said softly, taking them with gentle hands. He gave Jon an oddly suspicious look. “You didn’t have to get these for me.”

“I know.” Jon fidgeted. “But I wanted to.”

“O-oh, you did? Well. You really don’t—you already spent a week taking care of me, Jon. You really, um. Right.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tim announced from his desk. “You two are insufferable. I’m going to leave the room for ten minutes so you two can work on your shit.”

Tim took his bag of crisps and strolled out of the Archives. 

“What was that about?” Martin asked.

Jon cringed. He was really messing this up. Even Tim could notice how much of a disaster he was. 

“Um. Would you like to get lunch?”

Martin gave him a bemused look. “Jon. It’s 8:30 in the morning.” His cheeks colored. “B-but, when it’s lunchtime, I’d love to get lunch with you.”

“Right. Good. Yes. Excellent.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Martin laughed. “I usually have to badger you for hours to eat a sandwich, and now you’re suggesting lunch?”

“Well, you would like to get lunch, correct?”

“Yes, of course I’d love to get lunch. It just doesn’t seem like a very Jon thing to suggest, is all.”

Jon bit his lip. Of course it wasn’t. Being nice and successfully wooing people was decidedly out of character for him.

“I’m—I’m going to, ah. Get started on my work.”

Jon walked into his office, closed the door, and buried his head in his hands. He took a few deep breaths to compose himself. Jon was not good at humans. But he was good at planning. He took out a piece of notebook paper and a pen and decided to script out exactly what he wanted to say. 

He stared determinedly at the piece of paper for at least ten minutes without writing a word. 

“Why is this so hard?” Jon groaned. 

He ended up just scribbling “Martin, I want to kiss you and also I’m Mothman” on the paper. He picked up the phone and called Georgie. Unfortunately, it went to voicemail; she was probably recording. 

Jon sighed. He needed help, and there was no one to provide it. He needed more friends. He needed to actually be on good terms with Daisy and Basira—they had their shit figured out. Maybe Tim would know how to do this. He’d never hear the end of it, of course, but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make for Martin.

When he emerged from his office, however, Tim was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Martin was talking to...oh no.

Two people, a crusty old man and a woman with a scar twisting her mouth into a permanent snarl, stood sneering at a defiant Martin. Trevor and Julia, the cryptid trophy hunters. Jon’s hand lept to the still-tender scar on his shoulder. 

“What’s going on here?” Jon snapped.

“Hello there, Archivist,” Trevor said with a sneer. 

“Nice cryptid research Institute you’ve got here,” Julia added. “Funny you didn’t see the Mothman hiding right under your nose.”

Jon crossed his arms and tried to hide his spiking fear. “How did you get down here? We don’t allow guests in the Archives, and we certainly don’t allow firearms.”

Trevor grinned and ran a hand over the pistol at his hip. “We won’t trouble you none. We’ll just grab this thing here for our benefactor and leave.”

Martin took a step back. Julia took a step forward.

“I told you,” Martin said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“We’ve seen the Mothman leave through your window twice. No Mothman sightings during the week you were home sick. Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together,” Julia leered.

“Get out before I call the cops,” Jon snapped. “You really think I wouldn’t know if my friend was Mothman? You’re threatening my employee while trespassing with unauthorized firearms. Leave.”

“We know he’s the Mothman,” Trevor said. “And we’ve got a benefactor willing to pay 10 million for his head.” He grinned, showing off his yellow teeth. “We’re willing to give 1 million to anyone who can help us find him. That could be yours if you look the other way.”

Jon’s heart stopped. He knew Martin’s mom was sick, knew Martin was struggling to support her. 1 million dollars was a lot of money. More than enough to let her live comfortably and take the pressure off Martin. 

“I’m not going to look the other way,” Jon growled. 

He walked up and shoved Martin behind him so he was a shield between him and the hunters. He pulled out his phone to dial the police, but Julia grabbed his wrist and snatched the phone away. She threw it on the ground, shattering it.

“We’re getting what we came for,” Julia said. 

“He’s not Mothman,” Jon told her. “Just leave.”

Julia drew a knife. Trevor took out two pairs of handcuffs—one for each of Mothman’s pairs of arms. Jon’s eyes darted towards the door and saw it was barricaded with a few chairs. Muffled sounds of confusion came from the other side of the door—Tim and Sasha, no doubt.

“This is your last chance to walk away,” Jon hissed. “Get out or I’ll make you wish you’d never come here.”

“Jon,” Martin said nervously. “I-it’s fine, they’ve got to have a way to tell if I’m Mothman, right? They’ll just do that and find out I’m not.”

“He’s right,” Julia said. “There’s a very efficient test. See, monsters can’t keep their human form when heavily injured.” 

Martin paled. “U-um. That’s not ideal.”

Julia brandished her knife. “Ready for your blood test, insect?” 

Jon was shaking with fear and rage. This was all his fault. If he’d just stayed away from Martin, this never would have happened. How could Martin fall for someone who’d put him in such danger?

Jon had to protect Martin. He had to. Work Jon didn’t have any way to do so. But Moth Jon’s teeth were sharp. 

“Call the police, Martin,” Jon said. It was time for desperate measures, so he added, “Ask for Officer Tonner.”

Martin pulled out his phone. Julia moved to stop him, but Jon was faster. He leapt to tackle Julia, transforming in midair, slamming into her with four strong arms and a mouth full of fangs. Trevor yelped in surprise as Jon and Julia crashed to the ground. Jon fluttered his wings wildly, confusing his silhouette so Trevor’s gun would do no good. He dug his teeth into Julia’s shoulder, and she screamed. 

“Holy shit!” Martin yelled. “Uh, yes, I’m at the Magnus Institute, and we have a pair of armed intruders in the Archives, Jon told me to ask for Officer Tonner—”

One of Jon’s arms pinned Julia’s knife hand to her side. She struggled and snarled, and he kept biting his way down her arm, tearing at her flesh, exacting retribution for their reign of terror. 

“We’ve got you now, insect!” Trevor lept into the fray and tugged Jon off Julia, giving her the opportunity to slash the knife across Jon’s stomach. Jon yelped in pain and windmilled his arms wildly. He managed to knock Trevor’s gun out of his hands, and it clattered to the floor. 

Jon strained to turn his head and rake his teeth across Trevor’s neck. Blood began to bubble from the gashes in the old man’s skin. Trevor managed to pin his arms to his sides, and Jon struggled and kicked wildly. His movements were becoming increasingly erratic and tired as blood poured from his stomach. 

“Let him go or she gets it!”

Trevor and Jon both froze and looked at Martin, who was pointing the gun at a grimacing Julia. 

“I mean it,” Martin said, his voice trembling. “Let him go and put your hands up or I swear to God I’ll shoot.”

“You really want to do this, lad?” Trevor sneered. “You’re really willing to go this far for a monster?”

Martin fired off a warning shot a few feet to Julia’s left, and Jon felt more than heard it as the shockwave sent painful vibrations through his antennae. A shocked yell came from the other side of the door.

“I’m not fucking around,” Martin warned. “If you value your companion’s life, let. Jon. Go.”

Trevor slowly set Jon down, and Jon crumpled to the floor, clutching his stomach with two arms. He lay flat on his back and tried to breathe as his abdomen burned. 

Even as he lay on the ground, he couldn’t help but keep staring at Martin. Martin had saved him. Martin was his light, his flame, the thing that guided Jon and kept drawing him back. 

“Martin,” Jon chirped breathlessly.

Martin glanced at him, face tight with worry. Sirens started to sound outside the building.

“It’s gonna be okay, Jon,” Martin told him. “The police are on their way.” He motioned with the gun. “Old man, drop those cuffs. Both of you, up against that wall.”

Trevor and Julia begrudgingly obeyed. Martin walked over and bent to pick up the cuffs, still keeping the pistol trained on the hunters. He made them stand back to back and handcuffed their wrists together so the two were entangled with no hope of running or fighting. Once that was done, he rushed to Jon’s side.

“Hey,” Martin said breathlessly, kneeling by Jon. His hand hovered nervously over Jon’s stomach as Jon whined in pain. “Hey, Jon, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Jon chirupped reassuringly.

“God,” Martin whispered. “Jon, why the hell did you do that?”

Jon reached a hand up to caress Martin’s face.

“Light,” he replied.

“PPPD, open up!” Daisy yelled through the door. 

“O-oh, right.” Martin stood reluctantly and moved the chairs away from the door to let it burst open. 

Daisy stalked through the door, her sharp eyes methodically searching the room. 

“What happened?” she demanded. “What mess did he get himself into this time?”

“Jon’s hurt,” Martin told her. “Those two did it. Please, Daisy, I have to help Jon, he took a knife to the gut and I’m afraid he might die.”

“He’ll be fine,” Daisy replied, sparing a glance at Jon. “He doesn’t have any important organs there. Take him to Paws and Hearts Veterinary Clinic and ask for Basira.” She bared her teeth, her canines sharp. “I’ll take care of these hunters.” 

“All right, all right.” Martin ran a hand through his messy hair. He looked decidedly frazzled. He grabbed a scarf from his desk and tied it around Jon’s middle. “Okay. Don’t worry, Jon, it’s going to be okay.” He scooped up Jon into his arms, and Jon wasn’t sure if his dizziness was from injury or being ensconced in Martin’s embrace once more. Jon realized that he could probably lean up and kiss Martin, if he used all his arms. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t strain his core, considering the gash in his stomach.

Martin slammed the door open, and Tim and Sasha gasped in shock. 

“Is that fucking Mothman?” Tim demanded. “Wh—“

“No time to talk,” Martin told him.

Martin rushed out of the Institute with Jon in his arms. A few employees stared and yelled at seeing Mothman in their midst, but Martin payed them no mind. He tried to deposit Jon in the backseat of his car, but Jon gripped him so tightly that Martin was forced to just let Jon cling and sit in his lap as he drove. 

“You,” Martin told him as he started the car, “are reckless. What were you thinking, attacking her like that? You could have been killed.”

Jon nuzzled his face into Martin’s neck. He wanted desperately to kiss it. Now was probably not the time, given that they were desperately rushing to get Jon to medical attention. The wound didn’t hurt that much, not really—his moth form was extremely hardy. He should probably tell Martin that. Martin looked incredibly worried—of course he did. Two of his crushes were hurt. 

It gave Jon a little shiver of delight to remember again that he was Martin’s crush. That Martin actually liked him. “Crush” was such a juvenile concept, a word Jon would have rejected before Martin. But teenage terms perfectly suited the fluttering, like moth wings, in his chest, the feeling that was already blossoming far beyond the “crush” label. 

He wrapped all four arms tight around Martin. Martin took one hand off the wheel and used it to cradle Jon tenderly. His hand was buried deep in Jon’s ruff of fur, and his arm held Jon securely to his chest. Jon was struck, again, by just how big Martin was. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Martin reassured him. “We’re going to get you help.”

“I’m okay,” Jon told him through gritted teeth, straining to form the words with a mouth not meant for human language. “I’m stronger than humans.” 

“Right. Well. That doesn’t actually make me less worried.”

Jon laughed quietly. Of course Martin was still worried. Martin was always worried. Because Martin cared. It felt so odd to be worried about. But nice, Jon decided. It was nice to be worried about and fussed over. To be cared about.

“We’re almost there,” Martin said, his voice impossibly tender.

At that point, blood loss and affection won over, and Jon kissed Martin’s pulse point. Martin squeaked and swerved for a moment, but quickly regained his composure.

“O-oh. Oh. Okay. Okay. You’re delirious. Right.”

Martin pulled into the parking lot of the veterinary clinic and opened the car door. He barely had to support Jon, so tightly Jon clung to Martin’s shoulders. 

Martin went around to the back door of the clinic and hammered on it. Jon threaded a hand through Martin’s soft hair, and Martin gave a little gasp. 

The door creaked open, and Basira peered out. Her eyebrows shot almost up to the edge of her hijab when she saw Jon bleeding in Martin’s arms. Once Jon was satisfied it was Basira, he turned his face back into Martin’s collarbone. 

“Are you Basira?” Martin asked.

“That’s me,” Basira replied.

“My friend needs help,” Martin begged. “Please. I’ll pay any price.”

“Come in,” Basira instructed him. “I’ll get him patched up.”

Martin carried Jon over the threshold, taking great care not to jostle him. 

“Lay him out on the table,” Basira ordered.

Jon whined, but reluctantly let Martin go. Martin held on to one of his hands, though, and Jon gripped it gratefully. 

“You,” Basira told him, “are a mess. Figured this would happen one of these days. Hunters finally catch up to you?”

Jon nodded.

“Well. Good thing you got your friend. I’m going to administer some local anaesthetic.” Basira looked up at Martin, annoyed. “Do you have to be here?”

Jon squeezed Martin’s hand even tighter. “Yes,” Jon told Basira.

Basira shrugged. “Fine. Just a bit distracting.” The syringe slid in, and Jon sighed as pleasant numbness spread over his stomach. 

“Stay?” Jon asked Martin.

“Of course I’m gonna stay,” Martin told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Basira got to work treating the wound. Jon winced and tried not to think about the movements of the needle, instead focusing on the gentle pressure of Martin’s hand against his own. Martin was very warm. Usually, when Jon was in pain, he distracted himself by staring at a light. Staring at Martin was far more effective. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Martin murmured, tracing a thumb gently over the back of Jon’s hand. 

“I know,” Jon replied. “You’re here.” 

His wings fluttered a little between his body and the metal table. Martin blushed furiously. It was adorable. When Martin blushed, he blushed all over. 

“Hold still,” Basira snapped as she wrapped and taped the dressing. She stood and admired her handiwork. Jon looked down and saw stark white bandages against the dark brown-grey of his fur.

“Thank you so much,” Martin told her. “Really. How much?”

Basira sighed, looking at Jon. “On the house. Now we’re even.” She turned back to Martin. “He should probably go home with you. He needs bed rest for a few days. He’ll heal far faster than a human, but,” she glared at Jon, “that doesn’t mean he’s invincible.”

“Right. Okay. I can take care of him,” Martin said, scooting his arms underneath Jon to pick him up. Jon could probably walk or fly on his own, but he certainly wasn’t going to complain about Martin carrying him. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Now leave before any of my patients see Mothman.”

Martin didn’t try to deposit Jon in the backseat this time. He let Jon cling to him like a koala, and Jon barely felt the cold. Martin was like a furnace. 

“Okay, well,” Martin said as he started the car, “it’s been a very long day, and I think we need to talk about a few things.” 

“Yeah,” Jon mumbled. “Sorry.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Martin murmured softly into Jon’s neck. “I’m really, really glad you’re okay. I was worried.”

“Sorry," Jon chittered again.

“It's okay,” Martin told him. “Just…don’t do anything like that again, all right? I don’t want to lose you.”

In answer, Jon nuzzled more into Martin’s embrace.

Jon nearly fell asleep in Martin’s lap on the drive back, and was rudely jostled into full awareness when Martin picked him up to carry him to the apartment. Fortunately, they didn’t run across any neighbors between the car and Martin’s place. 

Martin laid Jon out gently on the bed and tucked him in. 

“Thank you,” Jon said.

“It’s no problem,” Martin yawned. “Christ. I need some sleep.”

“I can take couch,” Jon offered hesitantly. He didn’t want to encroach on Martin’s boundaries. “Or share.”

“I think we can share,” Martin said.

Martin slid into bed next to him, and Jon was too injured to cuddle, but he threw two arms across Martin’s chest so he could feel Martin’s breathing. No one was ever going to hurt Martin if Jon had anything to say about it, and he had quite a lot to say about it. 

“Sleep well, light,” Jon whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mothman can have little a kiss, as a treat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support throughout this fic! I never could have finished this without all your nice comments. I think this is actually the first time I've finished a multichapter fic that I was writing as I posted! So, yeehaw, and here's hoping this is a good sign for all my many, many, many WIPs. Enjoy!

Martin woke up to two of Jon’s arms slung across his chest, and he was totally unable to move. He had Jon. In his bed. Both of his crushes were the same person, and that person was in his bed, snoring softly. Finally, Martin got up the courage to reach up a hand and tentatively touch the downy fur on Jon’s arm. Jon snuffled a bit in his sleep and Martin couldn’t help but smile fondly. He was so small, so delicate, so fragile, and Martin just wanted to curl around him and protect him from the dangerous world. 

Jon’s eyes blinked blearily open and immediately fixated on Martin. Martin wondered how he hadn’t noticed Jon’s true identity sooner—they had the same stare that he used to find unnerving but now found comforting. Like a weighted blanket.

“Morning,” Martin said. 

Jon made a soft _mrrp_ noise, like a cat disturbed from sleep. 

“Let me make some breakfast.”

Jon grumbled and wriggled closer to Martin, clutching at his sweater. 

“You need food,” Martin told him. “You’ve been injured.”

“Bedtime,” Jon cajoled. 

Martin opened his mouth to protest, but Jon was staring at him with his big adorable eyes, and Martin instantly caved. 

“Fifteen more minutes,” he told Jon, rolling on his side to carefully cuddle him. 

Jon chirruped happily and leaned his head into Martin’s collarbone. His antennae tickled Martin’s nose. 

“You’re really cuddly,” Martin remarked, stroking the fur around Jon’s neck. 

Jon grumbled a little. Martin guiltily stopped petting him, but Jon impatiently butted his head against Martin’s clavicle until Martin resumed the petting. 

“How are you feeling?” Martin asked. 

Jon shrugged. “Fine,” he rasped. “I heal fast.” He nuzzled against Martin’s sternum. “Thank you.”

“I mean, you were the one who saved me. Who knows what those hunters would have done.”

“I do,” Jon said, gesturing to the bullet scar on his shoulder. “Want some eggs.”

“All right,” Martin said. “I’ll make some eggs.” He instinctively kissed Jon on the forehead and made it halfway out of the covers before he froze, realizing what he’d done. 

“Um,” Martin squeaked, refusing to look at Jon. “Sorry. Sorry. That was—that was just habit. Sorry. I’m gonna, ah, make those eggs now.”

He didn’t meet Jon’s eyes as he left, but he could feel the gaze of those two big round eyes. Martin tried to compose himself as he made the eggs. 

“This is fine,” he muttered. “It’s fine.”

His cheeks burned with heat—he may as well have just cooked the eggs on his face instead. He had kissed Jon on the forehead. He kissed Jon on the forehead! Oh dear. Oh dear. This was very bad. 

He sighed and made some sausages to postpone having to face Jon. Then he made some toast. By the time he plated the breakfast, the eggs were looking a bit sad. Martin squared his shoulders and headed back to the bedroom. Through the open door, he could see that Jon had huddled every single available blanket around himself. 

“Knock knock,” Martin said sheepishly, hovering in the doorway.

Jon’s head poked out from the nest of blankets with an inquisitive chitter.

“I have breakfast,” Martin said unnecessarily as he preferred the plates.

He walked over to the bedside and set one of the plates on Jon’s lap. Jon just stared at him. 

“How’s your wound?” Martin asked. 

“I’m fine, Martin,” Jon told him, his teeth scraping awkwardly over each word. “Just give me a day or two.”

“All right,” Martin muttered. “Sorry about the eggs. They’re a bit cold.”

Jon just stared at the plate. 

“Blanket warm,” he protested. 

“Your food’ll get cold!”

“But warm,” Jon insisted. 

Martin got under the covers with Jon. He sat up and started to eat his breakfast. Jon sighed and snuggled against Martin’s thigh. 

“Jon,” Martin said. “Eat your food.”

Jon slung an arm around Martin’s leg. 

“It’s time for breakfast,” Martin told him. “Eat.”

He picked up Jon’s fork, stabbed one of the little sausages, and thrust it in Jon’s face. Jon eagerly snapped up the sausage in one bite and eviscerated it with his sharp teeth. Martin had long since ceased being afraid of Jon’s razor teeth. Now he just found them adorable, if not a little sexy. 

“I’m not feeding you the rest of your breakfast just so you can keep your arms under the covers,” Martin told Jon. “You have four of them. That’s more than enough to eat breakfast.”

Jon glared at him.

“Fine,” Martin caved. “One more sausage.” 

He used the fork to feed Jon the sausage—he would use his fingers, but those were some sharp teeth. And besides, finger-feeding Jon seemed a touch too intimate. 

“Now eat the rest of your food,” Martin told him. 

Jon made little overdramatic noises of complaint and grabbed the fork. He finished the food alarmingly quickly. He’d probably give himself indigestion. 

“There you go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Shut up, Martin,” Jon grumbled.

* * *

The next few days were a flurry of activity, with both Martin and Jon having to give their statements to the police. Fortunately, Daisy let Jon give his in written form, as he wasn’t quite up to shapeshifting into “Work Jon” yet. Also fortunately, Trevor Herbert and Julia Montork ended up getting arrested for trespassing, unlawful weapons possession, concealed carry without a permit, attempted kidnapping, and attempted murder.

They weren’t able to have a conversation about it, except when Martin commented on how weird it was that Jon could keep his clothes when he transformed, and brought up Animorphs again. 

Fortunately, Jon healed quite quickly. He stayed curled up under the covers, more due to the need for warmth than weakness. Martin kept tending to him, but he didn’t give Jon any more forehead kisses. Jon was very sad about this. 

Eventually, Jon was able to shift to his human form and him and Martin had a day of peace and quiet to actually talk.

“So,” Martin said.

“So,” Jon said.

“You’re Mothman.”

“…Yeah.”

Martin exhaled and ran a hand over his face. “Right.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Jon told him. “It’s just, well, you saw what happens when people find cryptids. I was going to tell you.”

“I’m okay with you not telling me, Jon. I understand. It’s just a lot to process.”

“I understand.”

“I mean,” Martin groaned, his face furiously red, “it’s just that, I talked about you to your face. About. Um. Embarrassing things. Christ, that’s embarrassing.”

“Ah, are you referring to, um, when you admitted having a crush on both my forms?”

Martin buried his head in his hands before nodding.

“I’m really sorry about that,” he muttered. “Just forget I said anything.”

“I, ah. I’m. I’m not going to do that.”

Martin peeked through his fingers at Jon.

“What I mean is,” Jon fumbled, “that I. I’m not going to forget you said that, because I like that you said that, because I.” Jon took a deep breath. “Because I trust you, and you’ve helped me far more than I deserve.”

“Don’t say that. You deserve help, Jon.”

“My point is that…dammit, I scripted this conversation out and everything.”

Martin let his hands slip enough to reveal a raised eyebrow and a fraction of a fond smile. “You scripted out this conversation?” His tone was not incredulous, but knowing and tender.

Well, it’s now or never. Jon knew his next decision would be a huge one, and he was finally ready to make it. He wordlessly dug a crumpled piece of notebook paper out of his pocket and thrust it at Martin. Martin read it and gave a little surprised squeak. 

“Oh. Oh!”

“There are worse boyfriends to have than Mothman,” Jon said, “but there are certainly better ones. That said, if you want to give this a try, I…I’d really like that.”

Martin looked up from the paper, the corners of his beautiful eyes crinkling in a warm smile. Jon wasn’t surprised when Martin leaned forward to kiss him and let Jon close the gap. Their lips met, and Jon’s burned with warmth and light that he felt all the way down to his toes. Flying was nothing next to this. He kept his eyes open and relished Martin’s soft lips, and grew two extra arms to clutch at Martin’s back and neck and hair. Martin made a noise of pleasure and ran a hand up Jon’s side as he threw an extra dash of passion into the kiss, and Jon swooned beneath his touch.

Jon guiltily retracted the extra arms as their lips parted. 

“I’m glad,” Martin murmured. “I didn’t think you’d feel the same.”

“I don’t think I had a choice,” Jon chuckled. “Um. I do have a question.”

“Mmm?”

“I have two forms. Do you prefer Moth Jon or Work Jon?”

Martin pressed a kiss to Jon’s pulse point, and Jon’s ensuing _chht_ was a sigh of pleasure. How did Martin know he loved neck kisses? 

“I think,” Martin told him, “I prefer Jon.”

“Jon?”

“Just Jon,” Martin hummed. “Whatever you want to be.”

“Okay,” Jon whispered.

“I like talking,” Martin continued. “But I like soft too. There’s a lot I like about you.”

Jon laughed softly and kissed Martin again, because he could do that now. It was delightful. 

“Light,” he murmured into Martin’s delicate hair.

“Why do you call me that, anyway?” Martin asked.

Jon fluttered his hands a little, since he didn’t currently have wings. 

“Um. Well. Moths like me, we like light a lot, and light is something we like to look at. It guides us and warms us. And that’s what you do for me.”

Martin blushed furiously, and Jon decided that one day he was going to count Martin’s freckles properly. He’d be able to do it. He had plenty of time. 

Jon kissed Martin’s cheek. Martin smiled. Jon transformed into his Mothman form and nuzzled under Martin’s chin, kissing his jaw, then leaving little nips on Martin’s skin. Hands ran up Jon’s back, comfortingly stroking his downy wings. Martin’s hands were dizzyingly broad. They cradled Jon perfectly. 

“I can’t believe I get to kiss you,” Martin murmured.

In answer, Jon just left a kiss on Martin’s collarbone. 

“Jonathan Sims, warm and fuzzy and cuddly,” Martin mused. “Who knew.”

“Only for you,” Jon muttered. “My light.”

Martin stammered something incoherent, a fierce blush creeping up his cheeks. Jon chuckled. He was the lucky one, really, to get to love Martin Blackwood. 

“Is this a conflict of interest?” Martin asked.

“Because I’m your boss?” Jon sighed.

“I was more thinking because I’m supposed to be researching you.”

“Elias wouldn’t mind.”

“No, I guess you’re right. He’s so thirsty for Bigfoot, he’d be a massive hypocrite to forbid cryptid-human relationships. Not that we’re going to tell him.”

Jon grabbed Martin’s hand and kissed his inner wrist. Martin made a little noise of pleasure that Jon catalogued for future reference. 

Being Mothman was a tough job, and it was one that required lots of light, warmth, and love. Thankfully, Jon thought as he folded himself into Martin’s embrace, it was now one he had all the resources for and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on tumblr at ceaselesslywatched! if you like this fic, a lot of my fic is fluffy aus, so take a look at my author profile!

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr at ceaselesslywatched  
> all art by me


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